Cycles
by Fierceawakening
Summary: Kinkmeme fill. TFA Starscream is essentially immortal. We see Megatron kill him many times in the show. What we don't see is how much both he and Megatron enjoy it. M for gore, violence, BDSM, and snuff. Is it snuff if he comes back to life? *smirk*


Starscream's first few deaths were quick.

Quick, and entirely too clean: twin swords, cleaving the air and then cleaving him. The bright flare of a bomb he'd thrown as it detonated around him. The other flare, almost as bright, of lavender cannon fire as it engulfed and then consumed him.

He'd quickly grown bored with that. Fortunately, so had the one who was killing him.

Now, his destroyer's black hands ravaged his battered frame. One tore its way through his chest, ripping at cabling and denting metal, twisting its way into his empty spark chamber.

He shivered, wailing his assailant's name. There was nothing to find there any more, nothing for those rending hands to dig for and uncover. There was only the reminder that he was empty and hollow, that he shouldn't have been functioning at all.

Perhaps that was exactly what his killer wanted.

The other dark hand scored his forehead, digging into the plating, knowing that hidden beneath it laid the sliver of crystal that kept his victim's systems running. Half-exposed, it glowed blue, bathing his assailant's arm in light.

The fragment was Starscream's little miracle. An Autobot would have taken the second chance it granted him as a sign, dedicating his suddenly prolonged life to battling his enemies or saving his friends. He would have awoken after every new death refreshed and grateful, his restored systems humming with renewed resolve.

Starscream used his resurrections for this.

A hand wrapped around the shard. Starscream howled in mock protest. Both of them knew very well by now that the prying fingers, strong as they were, would never be able to crush it, or to pull it free.

"Megatron - !"

His claws scrambled to find purchase on the larger mech's back. Starscream felt his clawtips pierce, but only barely. The warlord's plating was thick, and damaging it was difficult enough when Starscream was undamaged. Now, with his cockpit glass fractured and the metal of his spark chamber crumpled and crushed and his own energon glowing with a sickly luminescence as it pooled beneath him, he had no chance at all of truly injuring his enemy.

Still, his assailant roared, optics flickering red with pain. Starscream's fingers slipped down the broad back, seeking the seam beneath it and curling his claws inside.

"I'm going to rip you apart, you pompous heap of scrap," he crowed, feeling cabling tear as he sliced at it.

Megatron's hand slid down Starscream's face, scoring lines through the gray paint. It cupped his chin, twisting and pulling until the Seeker yelped. Then it slid over the cabling of his neck and the plating of his shoulder, gently enough to make Starscream shudder.

"Will you, now?"

The broad fingers trailed along the edge of Starscream's already dented wing. The Seeker froze, knowing what was coming, as his leader's fingers tightened, inexorable and immovable, around an aileron.

With a brutal laugh, Megatron twisted his wrist, ripping the aileron all the way off. Starscream shrieked, watching his own energon spurt from the wound, bathing his tormentor's hand in phosphorescent purple.

Pain lit Starscream's sensor net. He twitched his wing, torn between wanting more of its fire and wanting to soothe it.

"Is that the best you can do, oh glorious leader?" he spat, licking ruined lip plates. His hand slid free of the other's back and moved to Megatron's chest, feeling the heat there.

He missed the simplicity of a spark-merge, his lord's chest plates sliding open to expose the orb of light within, his own chest opening in response, and then the energy bursting free of Megatron's spark and roaring into his in a crescendo of heat and light, filling and claiming him.

But that was impossible now that Starscream's spark chamber was empty.

Megatron missed it too, apparently. Starscream could feel a hairline seam in Megatron's chest where the plating covering the warlord's spark chamber had just barely cracked open.

_You want me_, Starscream thought, smirking. _But you can never have me that way again._

_Not since you killed me that first time._

Megatron was staring down at Starscream, his lip plates curved into a dark little smile. A few drops of the Seeker's energon stained them, and he licked them off slowly.

"The best I could do? You should know me better than that."

His other hand pulled free of Starscream's chest, not gently. The Seeker twitched as it wrenched its way out of the ruin of cabling and dented metal.

It, too, settled on Starscream's wing. The Seeker panted hard, trying to prepare himself for what was coming, but then the hand was twisting and pulling.

He heard his wing snap free from its joint and felt the warm, fresh gout of energon bathing his wing, his shoulder, and Megatron's hand for one brief moment before his sensor net blared a cacophony of alarms and pain fuzzed his optics and tore through his circuitry, a sudden infusion of flame.

He howled his destroyer's name, every part of himself lit with the unnatural life the fragment in his forehead gave him as if his circuitry itself knew how close he was to losing it again. It felt like overload and terror all at once, and when Megatron's hands reached for his other wing he howled, a high, staticky cry of desire and dread.

Then it tore free, and with it, everything Starscream knew and everything he was. He was wingless now, a broken thing, a shell, and every part of him was pain, brilliant and real, and he hated it and wanted more of it and wondered how he ever could have lived without these moments.

He keened again, his claws clenching at the seam in Megatron's chest and scraping against the searing-hot metal. He heard a heavy pant as the other cycled air through his intakes, but didn't know if it stemmed from pain or from passion. He saw a flash of light, but could no longer tell if it was the glow of Megatron's barely-exposed spark, the sickly light of his own energon, or simply a trick of his fading systems, his optics fooled by bursts of static.

"You will never defeat me," he wailed, his words a stuttering shriek.

It was a foolish lie, the kind of lie that should have made him laugh, even coming from his own vocalizer. So he did laugh, an eerie bark that stung his own audios until he felt a slick hand at his neck, rooting fiercely through the cabling there and cupping over his vocalizer as though digging for some hidden treasure.

He flailed wildly, terrified. He'd come here for annihilation, and he held no illusions about that. But his voice was his only way to answer it all, as the other parts of him were ripped away, one after another after another.

"Please, no," he spat, a plea with all the acid of a curse.

Rich laughter answered him, and as his consciousness flickered he heard the same sounds over and over, layered one before the other as if his lord's voice had become a chorus, filling the room, a hundred voices to make up for the one that he was losing, a new spike of agony in a river of it, his throat bleeding purple and wet and the ruined equipment making an eerie, high sound for a long moment until it fuzzed out and finally died, vibrating faintly on the ground and then going still.

His trembling stopped and he was nothing, errors lancing through his systems as his optics fuzzed and his audios glitched and he heard his own voice, replayed, and then his lord taunting him again and again, until he couldn't remember if he'd heard those words before or if Megatron was speaking now.

"You keep coming back."

And whether those words were new or old, spoken a moment ago or a death ago or at the very beginning, whenever he'd started this, he arched up to reach their source, pain thrilling through every part of him.

Before he'd started dying, his lord had never gone this far.

And now dark hands were wrapped around - something - some part of his plating, and he didn't know what, because he couldn't see, and couldn't hear, and could feel nothing but whatever there was left of him, clenched in impossibly strong black fists and buckling, folding, giving in, in ways he never could have before.

He faded, becoming nothing, wondering idly whether there was any part of him left capable of smiling. Soon, he would wake, in a flare of blue and a twist of disorientation, and it would all begin again, the ghost of recent pain crackling through his circuitry.

Until it all began again for real.


End file.
